Not Quite Dead (35 page)

“Nothing whatsoever. In America, everything comes down to money, suh. It is the national language.”

“Sadly, I tend to agree. I salute you, Mr. Poe. for having made the most of a fallow field.”

“Did I? Well, yes, I suppose I did. It would have been different had I been able to secure an English readership.”

“Do you mean that your countrymen might then have sat up and taken notice?”

“Precisely, suh. For an artist in America, to have been born here is in itself evidence of inferiority. However, by writing something mildly shocking, one can easily become infamous as well. Invisibility to infamy, with no pause for renown.”

Momentarily it occurred to Dickens that they were talking about Poe the author as though he were in fact deceased—as though the man seated before him was not Poe but a ghost, looking back upon his life on earth …

Dickens glanced at the clock, then at the thing seated by the door who could with little alteration pass as an Egyptian mummy; now his glance fell on the rows of hats—whatever had happened to their owners? he wondered. Then with a shudder it occurred to him.
This is not unlike a tale by
…

“God bless my soul,” he said aloud.

“Perhaps now you remember,” continued Poe with a sigh of weariness. “I wrote you a letter in forty-six, and we corresponded briefly. You did me the favor of accepting a short tale I had written for possible publication in England. Not to chastise you, Mr. Dickens, but I have not heard from you since.”

Poe’s accent surprised Dickens, for he had never thought of the man as a Southerner. However, there was no Southern cordiality in his voice at present. “Ah. Ah yes. I believe it was entitled ‘The Cask of Amontillado.’“

“And what was your opinion of it, suh?”

“Forgive me, Mr. Poe, but is that why I have been brought here? It seems like a deal of trouble, to kidnap a man in order to discuss a manuscript.”

“That is not the case, suh. I am a prisoner as much as you are, though for a completely different purpose.”

“I assume that I am being held for ransom—but that cannot be the case with yourself, given that you are supposed to have passed away.”

“I am not a hostage, suh. My situation is worse. I am a slave.”

“You are writing under duress, sir?”

“Very much so.”

“What if you were to refuse?”

“There is someone dear to me also held hostage for that express
purpose, suh. Whether for politics or personal gain—and I am not certain which—these are desperate men, suh, hardened men. Violence is not a horror for them but an expedient.”

Frightened by the specter of violence, yet relieved at having any sort of empirical explanation for his situation, Dickens rose from his bed, wandered to the other end of the room (conscious of a pair of ancient eyes boring into his back), and offered his hand.

“Whatever the situation, sir, it is better to have company. I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Poe, even on this occasion.”

“Would you care for a cigarette?” asked Poe. “It is the one thing we receive in quantity.”

“I accept with pleasure,” replied Dickens, and Poe handed him a small packet of ten.

Dickens savored the thick Virginia smoke. “Am I correct in assuming that you are acquainted with a Miss Genoux?”

“You are indeed, suh. Though
acquainted
is hardly the correct word. I have never been to France.”

“Yet you wrote the excellent ‘Murders in the Rue Morgue.’“

“It was not the French who interested me. It was the orangutan.”

“So am I correct in thinking that you know nothing of Paris?”

“Not a bit of it, suh. It is my view that, if you bother to read sufficiently about a place, you will know more than did the inhabitants of the day.”

“And what of the Irish, Mr. Poe? What do you know of them?”

Halten sie!
It was the voice of the thing by the door. Dickens had not expected it to speak German, but he did not expect it to speak English either.

“I do beg your pardon, madam,” he replied. “No need to call out the troops.”

Dickens turned back to his proper place, but was restrained by Poe, who had a grip on his coattail.

“I dislike repeating myself, suh, but what did you think of it?”

“I beg your pardon, sir. Think of what?”

“My tale, suh. ‘The Cask of Amontillado.’“

“Dear heaven, man, under the circumstances it seems odd that your submission of three years ago should remain uppermost in your mind.”

“I am a writer, Mr. Dickens. My work is always uppermost in my mind—how it is being received. Is that not how it is with you?”

“Of course, that is so,” Dickens replied, knowing that it was not
always
true. As a journalist, he had some time ago ceased to care about his style of writing and speaking. If his style pleased the reader that was all to the good, but it was not as though it would change if not.

“A writer is grateful for any response, even if it is discourteously late.”

“You seem adroit in collecting injuries, sir.”

“Injuries do accumulate, that is true.”

“Very well,” said Dickens. “In return I should ask for the favor of knowing where I am and what is presently happening to me. Will you agree?”

“Certainly, suh, though you may be overestimating my grasp of it. Please be frank, and so shall I.”

“‘The Cask of Amontillado.’ I shall have to think back. It was, after all, three years ago that I read it.”

“Three years is not the longest time I have had to await a response from an editor. But it is a long time just the same.”

“I do apologize for my rudeness. Between the fuss made over
Dombey and Son, Pictures from Italy
, and a bit of European travel, I had a good deal on my plate.”

“How fortunate for you.”

Dickens lit another cigarette. Tobacco smoke served as a wonderful stimulant for the memory.

“‘The Cask of Amontillado.’What a fine piece—what a model of economy and distilled irony. Think of it—a Mason murders a Mason by shrouding him in masonry! Quite stunning, really—and told in less than twenty-five hundred words! Dear God in heaven, were I to undertake such a tale I should have required that number simply to describe the vaults!”

“That is high praise, sir, and I thank you for it. And yet you saw fit not to publish.”

“That is true. Unfortunately, it was not for us. I did not make the decision easily. But my colleagues at the
Daily News
came to the same conclusion.”

“Might I ask why?
Godey’s
saw fit to publish, and it was well received
here. But then, I suppose you are about to say that the British are more discerning in their taste.”

“I am about to say nothing of the sort. You art-for-arts-sake people think taste is everything—don’t you see? Your tale was rejected because it contained factual irregularities that might confuse the European reader.”

“Facts? The tale is a work of fiction, suh. What have facts to do with it?”

“Mr. Poe, have you ever been to Venice?”

“Of course not.”

“Yet your tale takes place at the Portale di Venezia—the Carnival of Venice.”

“Not so. I indicate nothing of the kind. The tale takes place during carnival season in an unnamed Italian city.”

“Yes, Mr. Poe, but anyone who has spent a week in Venice will recognize Mr. Fortunato’s costume as originating at the Portale di Venezia. Not to mention the fact that Fortunato is a common Venetian name.”

“Nonsense. Fortunato is a play on the word Fortune. Surely to God that is obvious, suh. Yet for the sake of argument, I shall give it to you that the tale takes place in Venice. What then?”

“In the end he bricks Fortunato up in the cellar. I shall never forget the exchange:
The amontillado! Yes, yes, the amontillado
. What could be more horrifying than having one’s murderer agree with everything one says?”

“Indeed that is the point, suh, and you explicated it well.”

“But there is one problem, Mr. Poe: there are no basements in Venice. Venice is below sea level. Do you see? Had your avenger lured Fortunato into his vault, they would both have drowned.”

Poe lapsed into silence. It was plain to Dickens that he had touched a nerve.

“It seems to me,” Poe said eventually, “that is the difference between us. A matter of approach. You write about the world, about other people. I write about myself—and I include my dreams. There are drawbacks on both sides, as I have discovered while reading your work.”

“I don’t quite know what you mean by that,” replied Dickens, and a long silence ensued. Seeing that the conversation had dried for now, the Englishman returned to his rope bed and lit another cigarette.

Writers are notoriously touchy when you bother them with facts, but they tend to recover quickly.

“By the by, Mr. Poe, what is it that you are working on at the moment?”

“David Copperfield,”
came the reply.

CHAPTER
THIRTY

Philadelphia

T
he Texas Paterson he wore beneath his coat had stood by him throughout the war, so that Shadduck now regarded the gun the way another man might his dog or his horse.

It was not official issue. As far as top brass was concerned, a cavalryman was a dragoon, his conveyance was a hoss, and his primary weapon was a saber, and that was the end of it. Shadduck had bought the percussion revolver from a Texas Ranger, who had seen it to good use in Indian fighting. Unlike every other revolver on the market, the Texas Paterson shot every time.

A heavy pistol, and with the long barrel to boot, yet it was not at all awkward on the field, worn outside the coat. However, as a concealed weapon for an urban policeman it left much to be desired. Stuffed down the belt of his trousers in its Colt holster, the weapon shifted constantly. More than once he had had to make furtive shifts in his clothing, in public. At the moment, the Texas Paterson sat across the inside of his thigh, so that its greasy metal surface assumed the heat of his body. He shifted so that it rolled over to the outside leg, and that was more comfortable.

He was in unfriendly territory. How unfriendly remained to be seen.

“What is that fecking thing in your trousers, Inspector?” Of course, McMullen had noticed the weapon the moment the inspector entered the room, and could easily have ordered him disarmed, which Shadduck would have taken as a signal to flee the building.

“An old service weapon, sir. For sentiment more than protection. No offense meant.”

“None taken. I carries a pocket iron, for the line of the suit. Yours does not show your uniform worth spit. Though I doubt anything would.”

“I will cogitate on that advice, sir.”

To Shadduck’s eye even a single-shot pistol seemed redundant in McMullen’s case, for the man seemed more than adequately protected by two muscular young toughs in pot hats and loose-fitting fireman’s jackets, beneath which any number of weapons might be stored, in case their enormous cudgels proved inadequate to the task.

The meeting took place in Sportsman’s Hall, one of three saloons owned by McMullen, the other two being the Black and Tan and the Fourth Ward.

Sportsman’s Hall was a three-story affair: The top floor housed a dance floor featuring an orchestra of piano, violin, and cornet and a repertoire of “Green Grow the Lilacs,” “Skip to My Lou,” and “Jimmy Crack Corn;” it was a popular spot for trimmers—thieving whores— to meet their marks. The second story featured an arena in which dog and raccoon fights would occur, as well as bare-knuckle boxing matches for a purse of five dollars. Should there occur a lull in the action, the duty of the waiters was to fight each other.

The serious drinking occurred on the bottom floor, where customers were regularly drugged and robbed. To ensure a smooth operation McMullen had forged an agreement with the police whereby knocked-out patrons would be brought to a prearranged location, where constables could remove their inert bodies to the precinct house, there to be charged with public intoxication.

McMullen’s estimable rapport with the city’s law enforcement apparatus was one reason Shadduck had settled on him as a potential associate. Another was that he also served the community as the leader of a gang known as the True Blue Americans—who, as a secondary enterprise, manned the Moyamensing Hose Company. This made McMullen de facto head of the biggest gang in Philadelphia County, and the busiest fire department as well. It was a natural fit, given the Hose Company’s disposition to setting their own fires.

Shadduck needed troops—and of a higher caliber than he was going to get from the various Philadelphia County police forces. As well, if he was to have a future beyond the coming election, he had best round up a stouter ally than Councilman Grisse.

In addition to his other services to the community, William McMullen was about to run for election himself for president of the fourth ward, under the banner of the Native American Party.

Like many men in private business, McMullen had come to see public service as a necessary part of the business climate—thanks to President Jackson.

In the more than ten years since his presidency the memory of Old Hickory may have faded, but the effects of his reforms had not. In axing state and federal laws, as well as regulations and standards among the professional classes, in thereby ceding power of judgment to the common man, the president had set in motion a process that would be felt for generations, and would prove once and for all how much easier it is to remove laws than to pass them.

Thanks to Jackson’s reforms, nearly every public office in America was now an elected one. The pathways to power were myriad and open to an extent unprecedented since the Middle Ages; a determined man had but to secure the delivery of a few hundred votes to be on his way to the top.

According to Jackson, a white man could do anything he set his heart to, if sufficiently inspired. In this he had himself as an example. If Andrew Jackson could become president of the United States, it followed that, if the people elected a man to build a bridge, or play Hamlet, or set a broken bone, and if he set himself seriously about the task, success would be the inevitable result.